Chapter 1
"A hundred and fifty dollars. That's enough to get you home."
Trevor slapped three fifties on the table and pushed them across with one finger.
The courthouse air conditioner droned above us. The ink on the divorce papers wasn't dry yet.
I looked at the money and didn't move.
Then he added, "Don't drag this out. I have a meeting this afternoon."
I picked up the cash, folded it, and put it in my pocket.
Then I stood, grabbed my bag, and walked out.
He shouted something after me. I didn't catch it.
I didn't need to.
Seventy-two hours later, his company ground to a halt.
*****
At 3:17 that afternoon, I walked out of the county clerk's office.
My phone was down to twelve percent. I had a hundred and fifty dollars in my pocket. The coat I had on was a clearance buy from three years ago.
It was freezing. The wind in January up north was like a blade.
I stood by the road for three minutes.
I didn't cry.
Not because I was tough, but because I'd waited too long for this day.
When we signed, I got a clear look at Trevor's face, and it was pure impatience.
He kept scrolling on his phone, and the staff had to hand him the pen.
He didn't look at me once.
"The wife waives all rights to property division. The husband pays a one-time compensation of a hundred and fifty dollars," the clerk read out loud.
When the clerk read that part, he paused and glanced at me.
I nodded.
"Is that okay?" he asked.
"No problem," I replied.
Trevor finally looked up.
"Honestly, I didn't want to give you a dime," he muttered. "But for eight years, here's a hundred and fifty bucks for your trip home."
Eight years. A hundred and fifty dollars.
We were married for eight years, and I worked at his company for six.
We started with the two of us in a tiny office and grew it to more than fifty employees and seven million dollars a year.
And all he gave me was a hundred and fifty bucks.
After leaving the county clerk's office, I grabbed a cab.
The fare was 12 dollars.
That left me with 138 dollars in my pocket.
The driver asked, "Where to?"
I gave him an address. It wasn't home. Home wasn't mine anymore. The house, the car, the company, everything was in his name.
All of it belonged to him.
I was heading to Megan Miller's place, a college friend.
When Megan opened the door, I stood there holding my suitcase.
She looked at me for three seconds.
"Come in," she said.
She didn't say anything else.
She tidied up the guest room and handed me a glass of water.
"Have you eaten?" she asked.
"No," I replied.
"What do you feel like eating?" she asked.
"Anything's fine," I said.
She went into the kitchen and made me scrambled eggs and buttered toast.
I took a bite, and my fork stopped mid-air.
It wasn't that I felt like crying. It was that the whole thing felt strange.
In eight years of marriage, Trevor had never once cooked me a meal.
Not so much as a frozen dinner.
When I married Trevor, his company had only been around for three months.
The office sat in an apartment building, two hundred square feet, with one desk and two chairs.
He told me, "Stick with me, you won't lose out."
I believed him.
That first year, the company was the two of us.
He chased clients, I handled everything else.
And by "everything else," I mean literally everything. Answering phones, making reports, bank runs, mailing packages, cleaning the place.
Salary? Not a single dollar.
He said, "We're husband and wife, no need to keep things separate."
I thought that made sense.
The second year, we hired three people.
I started managing the finances.
It wasn't my major, but we couldn't afford a real accountant.
I bought books, taught myself, and got a basic accounting certificate.
When Trevor found out, he had something to say.
I still remember it.
"Why bother learning that? It's not like you're a real accountant," he scoffed.
Megan's cooking was good.
I finished eating and washed the plate.
"So, what's your plan?" Megan asked, sitting on the couch.
"I'll start looking for a job," I said.
"You worked at his company for six years, and he never gave you any benefits," Megan said.
"I know," I replied.
"No employment contract," Megan added.
"I know," I said.
"You were his wife, not his employee. Legally, you're nothing," Megan said.
"I know," I replied.
Megan was quiet for a long time.
"He really only gave you 150 dollars?" she asked.
"A hundred and fifty on the nose," I said.
"That's worse than what a dog gets," Megan said.
I let out a small laugh.
Trevor wasn't a dog. He was a shrewd businessman. He had worked it all out. No employment contract, no shares, and the house and car were his before we married. The company was in his name alone.
Legally, I had nothing.
A hundred and fifty dollars was his "handout."
When he said that, I could see a bit of smugness in his eyes.
"That's enough for a train ticket back home," he said.
What he didn't know was that I never planned to go back.
He also had no idea what would happen in the next seventy-two hours.
That night, I turned off the lights in Megan's guest room.
My phone buzzed with a message from Trevor.
Trevor: [Get your stuff out by tomorrow. I'm having the locks changed.]
I didn't reply.
I scrolled through my contacts.
Then I stopped at a name.
I didn't call. There was no rush.